


Space Mix

by sparkly_things



Category: Starfighter (Comic)
Genre: Drabble Collection, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2018-12-15 21:54:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11814942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sparkly_things/pseuds/sparkly_things
Summary: A collection of my Starfighter drabbles~





	1. Cook/Phobos

**Author's Note:**

> I needed a break from my longfic, so I decided to start writing the many drabbles I have in mind. Tags will be added as I upload new chapters. 
> 
> Here's the first one in the row: Cook/Phobos, set before Phobos got assigned to the Deimos we know. It might be a bit ooc, but I had lots of fun writing it. :D

“Navigator Phobos! You can now enter.”

He passes by the assistant’s work station without a word, stepping into the large office as soon as the door slides open. He walks through the room like a model on the catwalk, his slender body swaying elegantly; he only stops in front of the large glass desk, putting his right hand on his hip as if striking a pose.

“I want a reassignment.”

The commander doesn’t even look up from the file he surveys on his computer screen. His voice sounds uninterested, almost bored.

“It would be your third reassignment in two months. Refused.”

“I said I need a reassignment! Like, right now!” Phobos raises his voice slightly, leaning his upper body towards the table to make his statement more distinct.

Cook sighs in resignation and looks up at the enraged blond standing in front of him.

“Look Jules. No matter how much I like you, I can’t reassign a new fighter to you every time you get bored of one. The regulation has its limits.”

“I don’t care about the regulation!” Phobos slams both his hands on the opalescent glass of the desk, his eyes growing bigger in his rage. “You are the commander, find a way to solve it! I can’t stay with that animal a day longer.”

The older man shakes his head and takes his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, knowing the flood of complaints his next question will evoke.

“What did he do this time?”

“ _What did he do?”_

As Cook predicted, the drama begins. Phobos throws his arms up in the air theatrically, giving a few little choking sounds to show the level of his irritation upon hearing such an outrageous question.

“Oh my God, where do I begin? He drinks non-stop, smokes like a chimney and he leaves everything he owns around the bunk! All my clothes smell like cheap cigarette and I can hardly get to my own bed without stepping into his dirty underwear at least twice. Not to mention that he smells like a pig, and of course refuses to take a shower cause Mr. Macho Fighter thinks that sweat and dirt makes him manly, my God, disgusting! But when once a week he decides to take a shower finally, he uses up all _my_ shampoo without even asking! And it’s just the beginning, he –”

“Jules, please!” Cook looks at him with tired eyes. He witnessed the same fake drama and listened to Phobos’s exaggerated accusations way too many times in the past months. Ever since they first slept together, he could feel the younger man pushing his luck with him, trying to take advantage of his position as the commander’s lover. “Pity problems like this are far not enough for a reassignment request. I know that all fighters are hard to deal with, but you will have to endure one of them sooner or later.”

“ _Hard to deal with_?” Another round of choking noises to enhance the navigator’s dramatic indignation. “Have you like, _ever_ , dealt with a fighter before? They are insufferable.”

“Yes, I know they are, I was a navigator before too, obviously. Fighters are just dogs to be tamed, sweetheart; you need to learn how to keep them under control.”

“Aaah don’t _sweetheart_ me, you pervert! I know how to tame a fighter, you just keep giving me the worst ones cause you enjoy seeing me suffer.”

He turns around melodramatically, hugging himself with both arms and Cook curses his stupid, uncontrollable dick to have desired the most pretentious navigator on the whole space station. He puts his glasses back and raises from his seat, walking over to the sulking beauty and putting his strong hands on his narrow shoulders.

“Come on, you know I’m trying to find you the best as you asked me. I want to see you happy.”

“Hah, like I believe it. If you would, you’d help me with this reassignment.”

“Come on love, I can’t get you a new fighter every time the one you have does something you don’t like. You know that.”

“He even groped me! He wants to rape me for sure, and you let him.”

Cook groans inwardly and hugs Phobos closer to him from behind, kissing into his silky hair. He knows that the blond probably doesn’t say the truth, but he doesn’t want to risk losing such a perfect lover. Even with the constant tantrums and demands, Phobos is far the best sex partner he had in a long time. He really doesn’t feel like pursuing and training a new boy (unless it’s that _one_ unattainable boy he truly desires, naturally).

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I am!” Phobos pouts. “You call me a liar?”

“No, I would never.” he closes his eyes in defeat, hating how he lets himself being dragged in this mess again for a good fuck only. “If it’s really that bad, I will get you a new fighter, all right? But this is the last time I can help. If this one won’t work, you’re stuck with him.”

“Really?” The blond spins in his arms, looking up at him with a triumphant light in those icy blue eyes that makes him weak all the time. “You’re the best, thank you!”

The younger navigator plants a passionate kiss on his lips, his hand sneaking down to grab the commander’s cock.

“I won’t be ungrateful.” he whispers suggestively.

“I hope you won’t. But not now, I’m busy.” he pats Phobos on the butt and pushes him away. To his relief the blond takes the hint.

“See you tonight?” he asks on his way out of the office.

“Yes, I will call you.”

“Good.” Phobos turns back for a second, licking his lips sensually and winking before disappearing through the opening door, and Cook can’t help but smiling. Maybe that bit of extra paperwork does worth it after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this silly thing!  
> I've never posted anything so soon after finishing it, so please excuse any mistakes I've made.


	2. Keeler

He is sitting in the middle of his bed – a bigger bed than the Sleipnir average, for which he should be grateful. It comes in handy in this moment: he has two laptops opened in front of him, accompanied with several piles of paper scattered in an unruly mess around him. He tries to type as silent as he can, not wanting to wake Encke up, who sleeps peacefully at the other side of the room.

The diagrams and datasheets all get blurry for a second, and he decides to take the smallest break. It’s way too late for him to be up and he is dead tired, yet sleep avoided him once again, and so there he is, working overtime, exhausting himself beyond his limits hoping that it will bring some well-desired hours of sleep.

He straightens his back and cracks his neck, inhaling deeply and closing his numb eyes for a moment, massaging them with the tip of his fingers. Sleep deprivation makes him feel sick and his body hurts everywhere, but it’s the acidic, empty feeling burning his soul that makes him feel truly bad.

He lets out a shaky breath and checks on Encke, but apparently he still managed not to wake him. His pale eyes linger on the fighter’s face, studying his peaceful expression. He looks so different when he sleeps, serene and kind, but still maintaining the powerful and commanding aura that always surrounds him. He is a great man; the best fighter Keeler ever had. He feels lucky to have him by his side, finally someone understanding and cooperating, with just the right amount of protectiveness, merciful when needed and cruel when he has no other choice. A perfect leader. A perfect partner.

Not only Encke, but the whole Sleipnir crew is extraordinary. Fighters will always be fighters, Keeler doesn’t mind them much; especially not with Encke keeping them perfectly at bay and in a reasonable distance and safety from his white uniformed underlings. The navigators themselves were welcoming and kind upon his arrival to the ship after his promotion to their Lead Navigator, and despite the initial scheming and unhappy faces of those who wanted to get the position instead of him, everything went smoothly. Everyone is friendly and easy to control; great navigators with exceptional stamina and brains. The perfect crew.

Keeler should be happy about all this.

Should be happy and proud about everything.

But he is not.

All he feels is an ever-spreading loneliness that eats him up from the inside; the unbeatable craving for some unknown intimacy, some true feelings, some colour in the dull greyness of his every days.

He doesn’t let anyone know how all his smiles hide tears, how his confident attitude covers a devouring fear, how his cheerful positivity is only a vain attempt to keep others from feeling the way he does.

He tries his best at being a good leader and a reliable navigator, spends all his time working and working, only to keep himself from feeling this emptiness.

He craves a real friendship; craves someone who won’t reject him for opening up, for telling everything that weighs on his soul, for being himself finally, fully himself, without any pretence or lies.

He feels like Encke could be that one person he wishes to find, but the doubting question always appears in the back of his mind: _what if he’s not_? He can’t allow himself to risk losing the only person he feels even a tiny bit close with. He couldn’t survive being left alone again, couldn’t go on without Encke, so he restrains himself from showing too much, from suffocating the fighter with his needs and insecurities, from making him abandon him for not being good enough.

He feels a lump in his throat and his stomach sinking. He is thinking too much again; reasonable thoughts or unnecessary overthinking, it doesn’t matter. The emptiness inside him grows a bit more, and he blinks back his stubborn tears. He takes some deep, shaky breaths, and returns his attention to the laptop screens in front of him, drowning his sorrow and solitude in the endless datasheets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe I should've title this "Keeler/sadness". :c


End file.
